


Distraction Needed

by orphan_account



Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: Dark Creativity | Remus "The Duke" Sanders Angst, Dark Creativity | Remus "The Duke" Sanders Needs a Hug, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hanging Out, Hurt Dark Creativity | Remus "The Duke" Sanders, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Sympathetic Dark Creativity | Remus "The Duke" Sanders, Talking, Violent Thoughts, could be seen as platonic or romantic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-07
Updated: 2020-05-07
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:20:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24051238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Remus is having a bad day. So is Thomas.They find comfort in each other.
Relationships: Dark Creativity | Remus "The Duke" Sanders & Thomas Sanders, Dark Creativity | Remus "The Duke" Sanders/Thomas Sanders
Comments: 8
Kudos: 143





	Distraction Needed

Thomas hasn’t left his bed.

Not that that’s any of Remus’ business. It’s not like his function requires Thomas to get up and go about his day; being a figment of the man’s mind, a mere facet of who he is, his work doesn’t involve nearly as much trouble as Thomas’ daily routines (routines that do the bare minimum to keep them all alive; man, being alive is a lot of work). In fact, some of his best work tended to arise when Thomas tries to sleep or starting to relax after a long day, so he should be ecstatic that he doesn’t have to worry about any distractions. He should be working hard on creating whatever disturbing thoughts Thomas’ mind could cook up.

But Thomas hasn’t left his bed.

And neither has Remus.

He lifts a hand over his face, using the single light in his room to make shapes with his fingers. There is no muttering under his breath, no sick glint in his eyes, no hint of a smile on his face, replaced instead with a still, haunted expression, a carefully-crafted neutral look that fails to mask the chaos raging in his mind.

And oh, does it rage.

He flexes his fingers—

_chop them off_

—and stops. He goes to lower his hand—

_pull your nails off and eat them_

—and stops. His sleeve slips down and bunches up somewhere near his shoulder, revealing his bare arms—

_peel the skin off from your arms_

—and every movement, every sound, every _thought_ —it all blends together until it’s all one mess of gruesome, sickening suggestions, buzzing underneath his skin and blaring loud and clear in his ears until a headache pounds against his skull ( _smash it in and tear your brain apart_ ) and his teeth feel like they’re going to break from how hard he clenches his jaw ( _break your bones, let’s see what kind of infections can start to fester_ ).

Remus considers pulling his blanket over his head ( _would be great for strangling_ ) but decides against it, simply rolling over on his side and facing his wall. His eyes sting, but he doesn’t cry. He can’t cry.

The Duke is supposed to like these thoughts, after all. He doesn’t suffer from them; the others said so themselves. If anything, he _enjoys_ them. That’s the whole point of his existence.

(So why, _why_ does he want them to stop?)

So, no, Remus has not left his bed, and because the thoughts are too overwhelming, neither has Thomas. Both too paralyzed by the onslaught of disturbing and graphic imagery to move.

Or, at least, that’s what Remus thought, until he felt the bed dip next to him.

He can’t help it; he flinches, jumps, scrambling away from the person without thinking. The thoughts get worse ( _danger, danger, going to hurt you_ ) but Remus finds himself too panicked to pay attention, breath caught in his throat when he meets Thomas’ eyes.

The man rubs the back of his neck awkwardly, looking down at the sheets as he shifts away. “Sorry,” he says, breaking off with a weak laugh. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”

Remus blinks, not saying anything. That same blank expression remains on his face, though there’s a flicker of something in his eyes, something that Thomas can’t quite identify, something between confusion, annoyance—and relief.

Thomas hums when the other doesn’t speak, looking around the Side’s room. “It’s cleaner than you usually have it,” he notes. “I’m…honestly surprised. Figured you were going off the walls in here, with all the, uh…icky thoughts I’ve been having.”

_Beat your skull in._

_Tear him apart._

_Make it_ stop _._

_Do it, do it **now**._

Remus flinches back, forcing a smile that looks more like a grimace at Thomas’ narrowed stare. “Eh, well,” he crosses his arms to keep from scratching at them, looking everywhere but Thomas, “What can I say…”—his best work is done when he tries to sleep; when he tries to relax. It’s also the most painful, the most disturbing, and he can’t help it but that doesn’t mean he has to _like_ it either, he doesn’t have to enjoy how the thoughts shift from Thomas to _him_ when he’s at his most vulnerable and—and—“…It’s been a rough day.”

The statement startles both of them. Thomas tilts his head, leaning forward, “Oh? You okay?”

Remus swallows, cursing himself. Fuck. “Well, of course I’m not, Dr. Seuss,” he says, shoulders relaxing slightly when he notices Thomas fondly roll his eyes and shake his head, “I’m your bad, scary thoughts, remember? Being okay isn’t really my ‘thing’—think you have the wrong brother for that.”

“I mean are you okay as in mental health, Remus.”

“I—”

“Emotional health, if you’re going to keep deflecting,” Thomas continues, narrowing his eyes more.

Remus hesitates, thinking it over. He can’t lie; he knows that much, considering it goes against his entire function. He can’t talk about it; he can only imagine the kind of problems that would cause, what with Patton and Janus’ habits of hovering and Roman’s tendency to be dismissive and, in a word, act like an asshole.

But…it’s not like he can _ignore_ it, either.

Not to mention, they’re both in the same spot, all things considered.

Swallowing, slowly rubbing his arms ( _rub, don’t scratch, don’t scratch, don’t **scratch**_ ), he sighs, his voice cracking as he says, “It’s just a lot sometimes.”

And to his relief, Thomas just nods. No judgment. No questions.

Just understanding.

“Okay,” Thomas says, giving him a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. He goes to reach for him but stops, jerking his hand back so fast that Remus winces. “I—do you want a hug?”

The response is immediate, “No.”

“Is…touching at all okay?”

_Danger._

_Hurt._

**_Don’t_ ** _._

“ _No_.”

Another nod. “Do you want…to talk about it?”

Another pause. Remus can feel blood underneath his nails; fingers scratching and digging into his skin until there’s nothing but ugly sores on his arms. He wonders—actually wonders—if chopping them off would be a better alternative than letting them betray him like this, but he stores the thought away for another day.

“I…don’t know if that’s a good idea,” he settles on, chewing on the inside of his cheek. “That just makes it worse.” Then, perking up, he says, “Oh! We can talk about other stuff, though!”

Thomas thinks about it, humming. “Yeah, that’s fine. A distraction sounds good right about now, if I’m being honest.”

“Good! Because I have this idea I wanted to share, but I haven’t been able to because, well—” Remus gestures vaguely in the air, “—stuff and things that are of the red and princely variety.”

The other tries not to smile at that. “Well, the floor is yours now, so—talk to your heart’s content.”

Remus’ chest feels like it’s going to explode. He’s not sure if it’s in a good or a bad way, though judging by how light he feels and the flutter of excitement latching to the inside of his stomach, he decides it doesn’t really matter. “Okay, so, I thought of it after seeing some videos on that new Resident Evil remake.”

A brief glimpse of fear on the other’s face, “Oh?”

“Yeah!” Remus bounces slightly, some of the color returning to his face as a small smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “It was about body mutations, but instead of just big mouths or a buncha eyes it was also a way of, like…splitting off into other zombies.”

“Fragmentation,” Thomas says, without really considering what he’s saying.

The grin on Remus’ face widens, “Yeah! And the mini-zombies make their own society, like one that could rival humans…”

They stay like that for hours; Thomas seated on Remus’ bed and Remus rambling about idea after idea, gestures becoming more animated and face lighting up as time passes. After a while, Remus leans against Thomas’ shoulder, and Thomas runs his fingers through the other’s hair and encourages him to keep talking, and Remus decides he likes it and doesn’t move.

Eventually, Janus comes to check on his friend when his worry gets to be too much and Thomas can’t be found anywhere else in the mind palace, walking in to find the two asleep in Remus’ bed, still curled up in the other’s arms. He quirks in eyebrow, shock evident on the human side of his face—and then the Side pulls the covers over them and leaves, switching the light off as he goes.

Well, not before taking a picture, that is. Blackmail has its uses, after all.

(And if Thomas woke up the next morning in a better mood and Remus came barreling into the commons rambling about a new video idea that was both intriguing and nauseating, well—none of the other Sides decided to mention the fact that nothing had gotten done the day before. Sometimes you have bad days—and how the two want to spend those bad days isn’t anyone else’s business but their own.)

**Author's Note:**

> I tried to go to sleep but then I had some really bad intrusive thoughts and threw them into a fic because Remus is great for projecting intrusive thoughts issues onto. Also I just really need more content for this ship so I will make it myself if necessary.
> 
> I originally wanted more fluff in this but I am...prone to writing angst so maybe another time, lol.
> 
> Enjoy!!


End file.
